Springtime Is For Suckers
by RomanticDramadyGirl
Summary: The NCIS team investigates serial killings of government agents, including their own. Action adventure romantic dramedy. A little something for everyone, you know?
1. Chapter One: McGee Laments

**_Springtime Is For Suckers _**

**Summary:** The NCIS team investigates serial killings of government agents, including their own. Also, McGee goes on a blind date. Okay, so they aren't all they're cracked up to be… but if you've got enough drive and a little bit of a stalker side, something good can come of them. Action/adventure romantic dramedy; a little something for everyone, you know?

**Chapter One: McGee Laments On His Sad State**

Urgh. Springtime.

That was all Special Agent Timothy McGee could think as he sat at his desk at NCIS headquarters, watching other people's lives unfold around him. Springtime, in his opinion, was like Valentine's Day, except stretched into a whole season, instead of one day a year. Everybody was getting together, and asking new people out on dates, and "going exclusive". It was Singles Awareness Season.

And Timothy McGee was painfully single. Everyone that he knew, all his friends and associates at work, were becoming involved in relationships, or taking their already-existing relationship forward, it seemed.

Tony DiNozzo had moved in with his girlfriend of six months, which, to Tony, was a very big step in and of itself. In past relationships, he would have been incapable of calling a girl back past the fourth date.

Abby Scuito was getting pretty serious with the guy she had met a few months back at a convention. Apparently, he was very much into forensics and bowling. A winning combination for Abby. And a painful reminder for McGee, who had once been involved with Abby, but no longer had any chance. The two had an on again, off again thing, but it seemed very "on" lately.

Apparently, even ex-Mossad officer Ziva David was letting her guard down enough to start playing the field. No one quite knew whom she was dating, how she had met him, or what they did or said dates, but she had made no secret of the fact that she was taking offers. McGee had even considered asking her, until he remembered the time they had become trapped under a car dashboard. There was _no_ chemistry in that relationship.

Even his team leader, Gibbs, was dating. And it was obvious that he was at least enjoying himself, which was a nice change of pace. Although it didn't really change the work environment very much.

Even Palmer was getting some.

But McGee had no one. He hadn't had a date in almost a month, which was beginning to become quite an oddity for him. It wasn't that he couldn't get the dates.

But he _had_ realized that he had starting to try to go after the wrong type of woman. At first, he hadn't known what kind of girl he'd wanted. He figured he'd be lucky if any girl dated him. But after working with Tony for a while, he started to come out of his shell, and realized that his shy-guy computer geek act wasn't attracting the ladies.

Then he went in the opposite direction, flirting with girls in Armani. He was dating the _hot_ girls, the cheerleaders, the ones who liked couture clothing and guys who drove nice cars. But he realized something about them: they only liked him for the things he had.

So now he faced a nice little dilemma: find a girl who was down-to-earth and not concerned with material things, but also one who isn't geeky, in the crazy sort of way. Among other, more specific, requirements.

Which, he was finding, was hard in a world of stereotypes. People were so used to being pigeon-holed that they went along with it, either going one way or the other. He was living in a world of extreme opposites, where you couldn't be attractive and successful _and_ be a computer nerd.

You had to be one or the other.

Wanted: pretty, bookish girl seeking successful attractive computer geek.

-x-x-

Abby had noticed McGee's down-and-out behavior, and quickly surmised the problem: McGee had hit a dating slump, and she had to pull him out of it. So she did it the only way she knew how, by sending him on a date with her cousin.

Mary seemed like his type… sort of. By day she was a quiet, unassuming librarian; by night, a roller derby girl. Unfortunately, that was the problem with Mary: her tough, aggressive roller derby persona only came out when she was at the roller derby. Which meant, to everyone else, she was actually kind of boring.

McGee didn't need to know this, though. In fact, it would probably be better if he didn't. After all, there should be some level of mystery left during a blind date. It could sometimes turn people away to learn about someone through someone else.

So, one day, Abby Sciuto sent Timothy McGee off to Panera, a lunch date, and the inconspicuous Mary. Of course, as Abby indubitably forgot, things never go exactly as you plan them.

* * *

_So, what do you guys think? I've had this in the works for a while, and figured I'd squeeze it in before it officially became "not spring." You know, so it's appropriate and all. If I get good reviews, I should be able to update early and often. _; ) 


	2. Chapter Two: Their Bread is VERY Good

**Chapter Two: Their Bread is VERY Good**

Half-past-twelve, and McGee walked into Panera, hoping it would be easy to find Mary. According to Abby, she had glasses and dark blonde hair. And, of course, she would be alone, which would make her much easier to find. Who went out to lunch alone? Not too hard, right?

Wrong. Seeing as how it was Washington, DC and there were several hundred women employed by various government and private agencies in the area, it was a bit hard; it seemed like most of them wore glasses and had dark blonde hair and ate lunch alone. And they were all eating lunch in Panera.

He did have a stroke of luck, though; Mary realized who he was, and waved him over to the table immediately.

"Hi," she breathed, rising to greet him as he neared the table. "I'm Mary."

"It's nice to meet you, Mary. I'm Tim." He smiled and shook her hand, all the while trying to block out his thoughts of how awful the date was going to be.

Although many people will argue otherwise, there is something to be said about judging someone first based on their appearance. Although it's completely irrational to judge someone based on their attractiveness (something they have no control over), their clothing and way of carrying themselves can often tell you something about them.

With Mary, her clothes told him that she was obviously not trying to impress anyone (not even herself). She wore a black, cotton jersey ankle-length skirt, a ribbed, tan turtleneck (heavy on the ribbed), a pair of heavy black shoes, and thick-rimmed black glasses. Her stringy hair was pulled into a loose bun and she wore no makeup, which in and of itself was not a bad thing, but it only seemed to add to her apparent lack of self-esteem. The fact that she slouched didn't help give her demeanor the confidence it needed.

"Um… do you want to sit down?" he asked. He would have pulled her seat out for her, but she was sitting at one of the tables that was a wall-bench on one side and a chair on the other.

"Yeah." They did just that – and nothing more.

"Actually, maybe we should get our food first," he realized, furrowing his eyebrows. "You can go; I'll stay to keep the table."

"Um… sure." Mary grabbed her purse – a blah brown faux-leather thing – and walked over to the line. He silently beat himself for noticing something like the quality of her purse. How shallow was he getting?

While he sat there, mulling over what he was going to talk about and how he was going to pull through this disaster of a date, two women sat down at the table next to him.

One was very tall (as in, only a couple inches shy of six feet) and had deep red hair that looked, in no way, fake. She was pretty and wore a normal amount of makeup (although her eyes were circled completely in black eyeliner), and her clothes were nice, but had a distinct casual feel to them: a cotton top, jeans, and a pair of brightly colored sneakers.

The other woman was closer to average height (somewhere between five-five and five-seven), and she had violently dark brown hair that was almost black. Her makeup was normal too, but with a more natural look to as, as if she were merely accentuating the assents she already had. Her clothes were quite the opposite, though: a silky lilac camisole, a high-waisted brown pencil skirt, and a pair of matching brown pumps, at least three inches high.

They were young and energetic; giggly and chatty, but serious at times as well. McGee thought to himself (guiltily) that they would probably pass as a nice distraction to listen to every now and then during his boring blind lunch date.

And then he silently chastised himself. He was already expecting Mary to be boring and bland before he had even spoken to her for any sufficient amount of time. He pushed the thought of the other women out of his head (they were probably shallow and conceited, just like the others like them) and prepared to focus on Mary.

When Mary came back and sat down with her salad, Tim was about to get his food. As he stood, the brunette sitting next to them glanced over at Mary, turned back, and then did a double take.

"Oh, my gosh!" she exclaimed happily. "Hi, Mary."

"Oh…" Mary glanced over at the woman, without even making eye contact. "Hi."

The redhead, upon hearing her friend's exclamation, looked up. "Oh, hi." She smiled over at McGee's date as well. "I didn't know you ate lunch here."

"Oh, I don't usually," she replied, distain faintly lacing her voice. "But I'm here on a date."

"Oh, that's cool." The redhead smiled and glanced up at Tim, as if questioning who he was.

"This is my date, Timothy McGee," Mary added, as if they hadn't already guessed what his relationship was to her.

The brunette, who was closest to him, wiped her hands and mouth on her napkin and stretched out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Timothy McGee," she stated, shaking his hand with a smile. "I'm Emily Saunders."

"Alice Thackery," the redhead stated, shaking his hand as well. "I'm sorry if she interrupted you." She shot a glare at Emily, who turned red.

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry…" she muttered, her eyes widening. "If I'd known you guys were on a date, I never would have…"

"It's fine," McGee stated, sending her a forgiving smile. "I've… gotta go get my food."

"Right." Emily nodded. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah," Alice chimed in, "really great."

"Yeah. Definitely." He managed one last smile and got into the long line to order his food.

-x-x-

As much as even he hated to admit it, the date was about as boring as he had imagined it would be. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, or how interesting he tried to make her in his mind, McGee found that, despite the fact that they had quite a few things in common (a penchant for computers, and the same taste in some music) they really had nothing to discuss.

I'm sure many people have experienced the same thing. You have things in common with someone – quite a few things, actually – but you have such a difference in temperaments that there's no hope of ever having a decent, give-and-take conversation with the person. They say their thing, and you say your thing, but they don't go with each other.

In fact, he had even started listening to Alice and Emily's conversation a few times. He felt guilty for thinking this, but a few times he had had half a mind to just turn to them and join in their conversation.

"So, I was reading Sherlock Holmes yesterday night, and I realized there's another scene from one of the stories that's copied in The Great Mouse Detective." (That was Emily.)

"Oh, God, don't start," Alice had groaned, "I don't want to hear about the stripping mice!"

And then there was the Sudoku conversation…

"I can do a medium-level puzzle in three minutes," Alice had bragged.

"Yeah, but what's your success rate? Like, four percent?" (It had taken a sufficient amount of effort to keep McGee from laughing.)

And the writing.

"I was up until, like four this morning," Emily had revealed, yawning widely as she stared down at her ¾-finished sandwich.

"Why?" He couldn't tell, but he thought Emily had given her friend an exasperated glance. "Oh… story?"

"Yeah. I got this idea for a scene I just couldn't stop. It was… kind of bad, actually." She laughed to herself.

It turned out that Emily and Alice were much faster at eating than Mary was (who seemed like she had been trying to eat as little, and as slowly, as possible), and they ended up leaving a few minutes earlier than McGee and Mary. Alice turned right outside to get to her car, which was parked at the curb, but Emily turned left, apparently, as she said "In the pursuit of happiness." He had wondered whether she was going to see a movie, until Alice had mentioned coffee. Ah. So that was it. A Starbucks addict.

"Well," McGee thought, as he pulled on his jacket, and helped Mary with hers, "no need to make today a total bust." He exchanged goodbyes, and his number, with his date and hurried down the street to Starbucks.

Sure enough, Emily was already sitting in there, sipping away at a frozen coffee drink and scribbling in a mini book of Sudoku puzzles. Just so he didn't look like a total stalker, he bought a coffee before approaching the brunette's table.

"Hi." He smiled down at her, clutching the coffee in his hand. For some reason, when she turned those big hazel eyes on him, he felt nervous. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Oh. Of course not." She smiled, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. She moved her purse off the opposite chair so that he could sit down.

"So… how do you know Mary?" he asked, hoping this would break the ice.

"We all work at the FBI," she explained, "Alice, Mary, and me. Except I don't work in the same department as them."

"Alice works in IT too?" he asked, mildly surprised.

"You'd never guess it, right?" Emily laughed. "I mean, not that I buy into stereotypes, but Alice is pretty much as far from the stereotype of a computer geek as you can get."

"Yeah. When you said you worked at the FBI, I was actually kind of thinking she would work more in the area you work in." He smiled encouragingly. "Which is…?"

"Oh." She blinked, shaking her head. "Sorry, I'm really bad at taking hints." She laughed at herself. "I'm a profiler."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"A woman I used to work with specialized in that."

"Oh, gosh, I totally forgot to ask – sorry, I'm a total narcissist –" She rolled her eyes exasperatedly, "Where do you work?"

"I work with NCIS," he stated. "I'm an investigator. Although I actually started out doing a lot of computer stuff. I worked at Norfolk for a while."

"Is that how you know Mary? Did you guys, like, go to school together, or something?"

"Oh, uh…" McGee cleared his throat, resisting the urge to smile. "No, that… that was a blind date. A friend of mine set me up with her; they're cousins."

"Oh, that's nice."

"Did I hear you mention something about writing?"

"Stalker," she accused teasingly.

"Well, you're so loud, it's kind of hard to miss anything you say." Emily laughed. "I was kidding."

"But it's true; that's what makes it funny!" She shook her head. "Anyway, um… I'm kind of an amateur writer. Although amateur might not be the right word; I've done it pretty much every day since I was twelve." She shrugged, as if this were something to feel guilty about. "But you'd probably hate all the stuff I write. It's mainly like romance, and stuff. But I do some mystery, too… a little action/adventure, some sci-fi and fantasy… sometimes I write musicals or plays or short stories…"

"So you're a full-time dabbler," McGee supplied.

"Yeah." She chuckled quietly. "Do you write at all?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, actually, pretty often…" He came very close to toying with the idea of telling her about his book. "It really helps me get all my feelings out."

"I know, right?" she agreed. "It's better than a diary, because you don't have to say it; someone else can. You're totally blameless. Like, I always used to get made at my dad, so instead of saying really mean, rude stuff to him, I would have my character say it to her father." She stiffened as she realized this made her family sound dysfunctional. "Not that my father and I fought a lot. Most families fight every once in a while."

"Yeah." McGee smiled sympathetically, and she immediately knew he didn't think her a freak. "I know. I clashed with my parents a bit, too." They both nodded slowly for a moment, obviously not sure where to take the conversation from there.

"What kind of stuff do you write?" Emily asked.

"Um… mainly mystery stuff. You know, detectives and crime fighting, all of that…"

"Sort of like what you do?"

He chuckled quietly at the realization; she had no idea how close to the truth she was. "Yeah, kind of."

"Now, do you do more of the detective stuff, like Law and Order, or whatever, or is your job more forensics-based, like CSI?"

"It's kind of a combination of both," he explained. "Although I'd say we do more of the actual detective work."

Her phone started ringing; it sounded like a waltz from the eighteenth century, he noted. "I'm really sorry, I have to take this." Flipping open her phone, Emily glanced at the screen and looked alarmed. "Oh, my gosh, is that really the time?" she asked, answering the phone.

"Yeah, it is. Where the hell are you?"

"I'm… in Starbucks," she replied, rolling her eyes exasperatedly at her own dawdling. "Is she there yet?"

"She hasn't gotten back yet, but if you don't leave now your ass will be very, very close to being fired."

"Oh, God. I'm on my way right now, okay? Okay. See you in five minutes. Bye." She snapped her phone shut and turned to McGee. "I'm really sorry; I've gotta go. I have to be at work, like, now." She stood and slung her bag onto her arm. "It was really nice meeting you."

"Yeah, you too," he replied, getting to his feet respectfully. "I'm sorry I kept you away from work; do you need a ride?"

Emily seriously debated taking him up on his offer; but then she reminded herself that he was still a stranger, and what her parents had said about strangers.

"I can get a cab," she replied, exiting to the curb. "It's really nice for you to offer, though." She stood next to the road and tried to hail a taxi.

"Well, can I get your number, at least?" he asked, whipping out his PDA and holding the stylus at an alert position.

"Um… yeah." She continued to hold one hand in the air as she recited her cell phone number to him. "I'd give you my home number, but it just forwards to my cell phone because I'm never home." She smiled and slid into the yellow taxi that had pulled up beside her. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too," he replied, pushing the door shut.

Inside the cab, Emily leaned forward to address the driver. "I'll give you a good tip if you can get me to the Hoover Building in less than five minutes."

* * *

_Review and let me know what you guys think!_


	3. Chapter Three: Emily Has Guns

**Chapter Three: Emily Has Guns, In Her Most Secret and Special of Places**

"Suit up, Saunders, we're heading out," a tall young man with dark hair stated, passing by the young woman's desk just as she slipped her coat off and was preparing to sit down.

"What about Raster?" she whispered, her eyes shifting suspiciously this way and that. "She's usually back from lunch by now."

"Yeah, you got lucky," replied the man, Matt Keller, slipping his coat on and grabbing his briefcase. "We're meeting her somewhere."

"Crime scene?" Emily asked, letting Matt help her with her jacket. The two hurried towards Matt's car, a silver Impala.

"Nope. Apparently, we're working jointly with another agency on this case. Sounds like they've got a shortage of profilers, and they need help from the two of us." He winked and held the passenger's side door open for her.

"Which agency?" she asked curiously, flipping her pocket mirror open and checking her reflection as he backed out of the parking spot.

"I dunno… one of those ones with 'crime' or something in the name… like CSI, or something. I didn't know; I'd never even heard of it before. Must be a really little one, or something. But I've got directions, so it's all right."

"Are you sure you haven't heard of it? Maybe you did and just… hm… didn't care enough to remember?"

"I remember lots of stuff!" Matt exclaimed defensively. "Like your birthday, and what time lunch is, and the names of all our suspects."

"Yeah, but… when you hear something that doesn't really matter, you forget about it. You're just blessed that way. Me, I keep all this extra information in my head, and I don't have any room for the stuff I need to know. For example, I know what a watermelon is called in Spanish. But I don't know how to get to my parent's house."

"They live in Florida."

"I know, but I wouldn't know how to drive there if I had to. I wouldn't even know which highway to get on."

"You'd probably want to take an interstate, actually – I can't take more than a day's drive to get to their house. I mean, maybe eleven or twelve hours?"

"It's about a day and a half."

-x-x-

Emily couldn't help but laugh hollowly as they pulled into the NCIS parking lot.

"This is where we're going?"

"Yeah. Why? Have you got something against…" He squinted to read the sign, "the Naval Criminal Investigate Service?"

"I just met a guy who works here. He asked me for my number during lunch."

"Ah, yes. Emily Saunders, female FBI Casanova," Matt replied sardonically, throwing her a teasing grin and stepping out of the car. "Was he your type?"

"Yeah, I think he was," she mused cheerfully, falling into step beside him. "Clean-cut, well spoken, polite – he offered me a ride to work…"

"Bow-chicka-bow-wow."

"Shut up!" the brunette squealed playfully. "He was just doing it to be polite. I declined, though, because my parents taught me never to accept rides from strangers."

"Good girl. I knew I taught you well."

They gave the guards by the metal-detectors their names and flashed their badges, before being given a name and a floor number. Guns and bags were sent through the scanner and their owners followed obediently, although the alarm went off as Emily passed through.

"Ma'am, can you please step through the scanner once more?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot my other gun." The seemingly innocent profiler slid her skirt up to a highly questionable point, revealing another gun strapped to the inside of her upper thigh. "I've gotten so used to it by now, it's hard to remember it." She giggled (much to the perplexity of the two guards), laid the gun on the conveyor belt, and passed through the archway once more. This time, the controls remained silent.

"All right, you're clear." The guard closest to them watched intently as the young woman secured all of her firearms to her body once more. "You always carry two guns?"

"At least two; sometimes more. There's also one in my purse. And if my bag's big enough, I pack a couple of throwing knives, too. I used to have this bra that I could slip little throwing stars into, but I had to give it back to the Bureau. I think they were worried about me using it after hours." She smiled amicably as she grabbed her clutch.

"I pity any man tries to make an unwanted move on you," the guard admitted, letting loose a low whistle.

"That's the point," she replied, following Matt to the bank of elevators. "Matt?"

"Yeah?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets and tapping his foot impatiently, keeping his eyes on the numbers above the elevator, and not his coworker.

"Why do people find it weird that I own so many weapons?" she asked quizzically. "I do work for the FBI."

"Ems, you're five-six, weigh about a hundred and twenty pounds, and you wear bows in your hair on a regular basis. People don't exactly expect people like you to be able to shoot the groin off of a target dummy from twenty yards away."

"Why not?" Her frown deepened. "It's one of those stereotype things, isn't it?"

"Never mind; it's not important." He rolled his eyes and stepped into the elevator. "So, what's this guy's name?"

"Tim… Mc… something."

"Tim McSomething?" Matt asked, raising his eyebrows. "That's a last name I've never heard before. Is he Irish?"

"Oh, you know how bad I am with names! I can remember faces and facts and stuff, but not… names." She threw her hands in the air. "Oh, wait! McGee! Like from that book, Maniac McGee. Or maybe that was Magee, or something like that… Oh, well. Almost the same thing." The doors slid aside, allowing them entrance to the third floor. "Who are we looking for again?"

"You really are bad, aren't you?" Matt asked exasperatedly. "Special Agent Jethro Gibbs and company."

"You looking for Gibbs?" asked a man, overhearing the conversation.

"Yeah…" Emily replied slowly, itching to ask whether everyone at NCIS listened in on other people's conversations.

"Third set of cubicles on your left."

"Does everyone at NCIS listen in on other people's conversations?" she asked politely. The man only blinked, turned slightly red, and apologized quickly, bowing out of the conversation.

"Do you have to scare everyone like that?" Matt hissed.

Emily stared up at him, eyes wide and full of sincerity. She always had to play the ingénue. "Yes."

"Here we go."

The two FBI agents stopped in the entrance to the bull pit, a little afraid of the mystery that lay before them. Four desks, all facing inward, to an open space. Three of them were occupied; the first, on their immediate left, by a beautiful, dark, foreign-looking woman. The second was immediately to their right, and occupied by a tall, handsome man in his early thirties; he was a little older than Matt. The last occupied desk was in the back on the right, where a tall, sandy-haired man sat crouched behind his computer. The older man to their right was the first to look up.

"Hey," he greeted them brightly, getting from his seat and beginning to circle the pair. "You must be Agents Keller and Saunders."

"That's us!" Emily quipped, managing a small smile. "Are you Agent Gibbs?"

The person hidden behind their computer chuckled quietly. The other man threw a glare over his shoulder. "Actually, I'm Tony DiNozzo. Agent Gibbs and Agent Raster will be back in a moment." Suddenly, he was all charm. "And would you be Saunders, or Keller?"

"I'm Emily Saunders." She shook his hand. "And this is Matt Keller, my partner." The two men shook hands politely. The dark woman rose and went to introduce herself when the man sitting behind his computer popped up suddenly, staring at the young woman.

"Emily Saunders?" he asked, doubt riddling his face.

"Oh… wow, gosh! Tim McGee?" The brunette grinned happily. "This is so funny!" She rushed over to his desk, fighting back giggles. "I feel like I haven't seen you forever," she stated sardonically.

"I know. It's been… what? An hour?" he replied, playing along with her charade. "Feels like so much longer."

"Yeah, I've missed you all these… minutes."

Tony stared from one to the other. "Wait, you two know each other?" His eyebrows furrowed deeply.

"Oh, yeah," McGee replied, wrapping his arm around Emily's shoulder; somehow, he knew she would be comfortable with it, for the joke's sake. "We go back… hours."

"I've known this guy forever! Since… what?" She looked over at him searchingly. "Twelve-forty, twelve-fifty?"

"Twelve-forty-five," he assured her.

"Ah. See? I was close. Synergy."

"Wait… you guys met today?" Tony asked slowly.

"Oh…" Matt grinned. "So this is Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow Guy."

Emily blushed and slipped her arm out from around McGee, moving a foot away from him. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, as is apt to follow after someone makes such a comment.

Surprisingly, Emily was the first to recover. "I'm Emily, by the way," she stated, moving towards the other woman with an outstretched hand.

"I am very pleased to meet you. I'm Ziva David." The handshake was short and concise. After Matt had, in turn, introduced himself to the rest of the group, everyone gathered in a circle to chat.

"So Agent Gibbs is talking to the Director of NCIS with Raster?" Matt asked, scratching his chin.

"They'll probably be down in a couple of minutes," Tony explained.

"What I don't get is why we're all here; are we going to be working jointly on some investigation?" Emily asked. "Not that I'd mind, but it would be nice to know."

"Well, I think we really need profilers… and we don't have one anymore. Apparently, you guys are the best of the best, as far as FBI profiling goes, so they called you in," McGee explained. Matt and Emily looked very pleased with themselves, sharing an impressed look.

"Sounds like we're on our way to the top," Matt stated.

"I wish our boss would tell us those kinds of things every once in a while," the brunette grumbled good-naturedly. "All I ever get is 'Are you ever gonna use any of those weapons, Saunders?'"

"Well, Em, you are packing about four right now, and we're profilers, it's not like we're cops, or something…"

"I'm only carrying three." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Plus the mace in my purse. And… my shoe."

"Your shoe?"

"It's a stiletto. I saw once, on CSI, how someone actually stabbed someone else in the neck with one of them." The group was silent. "And he died."

"Wait, are you… talking about weapons?" Tony asked, a curious grin lighting his face. "You carry guns? Three guns?"

"At least three. Usually more."

Tony observed her from head to toe. "I'm only getting the one, and it doesn't look like there's anywhere else you could put another one. I mean, your purse is tiny."

"Have you ever seen Miss Congeniality?" Matt asked. Tony and McGee nodded, but Ziva didn't. "Emily's pretty much Sandra Bullock's character, combined with Elle Woods from Legally Blonde."

"And that is nothing to be ashamed of," added Emily.

"I still don't know where you're keeping your other guns," Tony stated. The brunette smiled mysteriously. "You're not going to tell me, are you? It's one of those secret woman things, right?" He turned to his female coworker. "Tell me where it is, Ziva."

The Mossad office smiled secretively. "Not in a million years, Tony." She gave Emily a small wink, before returning to her desk. Emily threw her a thumbs-up.

"I could tell you where it is, but she'd probably mace me," Matt admitted. "And, the sad thing is, she'd enjoy it."

"Can we stop talking about me, please?" Emily asked anxiously. "I don't like talking about… me."

"Okay, let's talk about something else, then," McGee replied, giving her a helpful smile. "Let's talk about…"

"Gibbs!" Tony exclaimed.

* * *

_So... more insight into Emily. She's intruiging, no? And Matt, too. I guess. LOL Anyway, you know the drill!_


	4. Chapter Four: Coalescencesness…

**Chapter Four: Coalescencesness…**

The five government agents, wherever they were and whomever they were talking to, turned to see a handsome older man with silver hair, a pretty woman with short red hair, and a tall woman, about the same age as the other two, with long raven hair, all standing together.

"I see you've already started getting acquainted," observed the redhead, a small smile playing at her lips. "It's nice to know NCIS can get along with the FBI every once in a while."

"Yep. We're all best friends now," Tony declared, grinning over at Emily. The brunette sighed, avoiding his gaze.

"I'm Director Shepard, by the way."

"It's nice to meet you," Emily stated, shaking her hand. "I'm Emily Saunders."

"She can't ever just say 'hi' to people," Matt explained, standing beside his colleague. "I'm Matt Keller."

"It's good to meet both of you." Director Shepard addressed the group of younger agents as a whole. "No doubt you will all have questions, so why don't you follow me to the conference room."

"I heard you got back from lunch late, Saunders," the dark-haired woman stated, falling into step beside her junior agent. Emily's face turned red-hot, but no blush showed. "Did he get your number?"

The young woman glanced over her shoulder quickly at McGee. "Yeah, he did," she replied proudly.

"Think he'll call you? Or is he one of those ones who just chats you up and leaves you high and dry?"

"Mm… I don't know." Emily smiled secretively. "I hope he calls me. I really thought he seemed like a nice guy." McGee smiled proudly to himself; Tony rolled his eyes disgustedly.

"You gonna ask her out, Probie?" the Italian man asked, as loudly as possible.

"Tony!" McGee hissed through gritted teeth. Of course he had wanted to ask her out (why else would he have gotten her number?), but he wasn't sure if it would be a good idea to get involved while their teams were working together.

"What? I'm just saying, I think you should."

-x-x-

When people sit down at a large table, there is often a few awkward moments between arrival and being seated as everyone tries to establish who they will sit next to, without seeming to have any preference. A few people in the room were not those kind of people: the director of NCIS, who sat at the head of the table, Agent Gibbs, who simply plopped down at the seat beside the Director, and Emily, who, as the lowest ranking officer in the entire room, seemed to have no problem simply finding a seat in the middle of the table and setting herself down, leaving everyone else to fill in around her. Agent Raster sat on the other side of the Director, then Matt, and then Ziva. Tony settled himself between Gibbs and Emily, and that left McGee to choose: Ziva or Emily? He finally settled with the younger woman, knowing that Ziva would not be heartbroken. The brunette gave him a flirtatious smile before turning to face the Director.

"Agent Gibbs's team believes they have uncovered a serial killer," she announced, gazing purposefully around the table. "And, as we have a shortage of profilers at NCIS, we decided to team up with the FBI. Agent Gibbs's team will work jointly with Agent Raster's team." She proceeded to discuss the particulars of the situation and, by the end, the FBI agents had a pretty good idea of what they were dealing with.

"Now, does anyone have any questions?" Emily raised her hand slowly. "You don't have to raise your hand, Agent Saunders."

"Oh. I didn't even notice I did that." She smiled to herself. "Where will we be working from?"

"Until this case is solved, you will be reporting to NCIS every work day."

"Okay." Her face was impassive as she turned her attention back to the pad of paper in front of her. McGee watched as she noted at the bottom of the page, in bold, capital letters: AT NCIS NOT HOOVER. He struggled against a smile.

"Anyone else?" The group was silent. "All right, I think that's it. You can all get back to work." The filed out of the conference room slowly, first the senior agents, speaking to each other in low voices, and then everyone else followed.

The silence was stifling; no one could stand it, but no one knew how to end it. Finally, Matt started beat boxing quietly, and Emily couldn't help but start singing.

"I wanna know your name and I wanna know if you got a man-"

Matt also sang back up. "I wanna know!"

"I wanna know everything: I wanna know your number and if I can come over and I wanna know whatcha like, I wanna know so I can do it all night… but you're tellin' me I'm just a friend, you're tellin' me I just a friend!"

"Oh, baby, you've…"

"Oh, baby, you've…"

"Got what I need…"

"Got what I need! But you say I'm just a friend, but, you say I'm just a friend…"

"Keller! Saunders!" Raster exclaimed testily. "That's enough!"

"Sorry." Emily hung her head, but shared a small smile with Matt.

"Do you guys always act like this?" Tony asked, speeding forward to stand between the two. They exchanged a glance.

"Yeah, pretty much," Matt replied.

"Do you usually get away with it?"

"Usually," Emily stated. "But I think we're expected to restrain ourselves on this job. You know, to impress NCIS, and everything… well, you guys." She sighed happily. "But we find ways to have our fun."

"How do you get away with everything?"

"Well, we're kind of like… the best of the best, aren't we?" Matt asked, grinning over at Emily. He reached behind Tony's back and squeezed her hand; McGee didn't miss it. "It doesn't matter how you conduct yourself if you're brilliant."

"We're not all as conceited as Matt," Emily assured them.

"Emmy is," Matt offered tauntingly.

"What? No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You prance around all day talking about your seventeen guns and four knives, or however many you have hidden in your naughty bits…"

"I do not have seventeen guns. And they're not all in my naughty bits." Her eyes widened as she realized she had given away some of her firearm's hiding places.

Tony laughed triumphantly.

-x-x-

"Nobody eat tonight, because… I'm cooking." Emily grinned. "My house, six-thirty… we're 'working on the case' there. Bring an appetizer." It was clear no work was going to be done that night.

"You're gonna love her cooking," Matt gushed proudly. "She makes the _best_ chilies."

"Chilies?" McGee asked, emphasizing the plural. "How many kinds of chili can you make?"

"There's as many different kinds of chili as there are cooks," the brunette replied wisely.

-x-x-

Matt was the one who opened the door. It was the first time anyone had seen him in anything less than a business suit. He was just wearing a tee shirt and jeans, but his muscled arms were clearly defined and made him look more than a little like a model.

"Hey." He grinned, stepping aside to let Tony and Ziva through. "She's just started cooking – I hope your appetizers are ready to go. I'm starving!"

"Stop whining!" Emily exclaimed from the kitchen. "They brought you food." She flitted around the kitchen, stirring here, pouring there, but always doing something.

"Hey, Emmy," Tony greeted her, setting a bottle of Chianti Classico down on the counter beside her. "Best stuff Tuscany has to offer."

"Oh, thanks!"

"I brought falafel," Ziva declared proudly.

"You remembered!" Emily gushed. "That's so great. You guys can just put your stuff down on the table in the living room." She watched them through the window cut out in the wall between the kitchen and the living room. "Did Tim say whether he was coming or not?"

"Um… I think he had something going on tonight," Tony stated, as Ziva wandered into the living room to shat with Matt. "And I don't think he's getting done until, well… later. _A lot_ later."

"Oh, okay." Even though her tone, expression, and body language said differently, Tony knew that the brunette was disappointed. There was something in her eyes, and the way she let it go almost _too_ easily. "If you grab some glasses out of that cabinet, we can crack open this Chianti."

-x-x-

The were halfway through Matt's store-bought baclava tray (their hostess had dubbed him a "cheater"), trying to avoid the subject of work (it was turning out to be harder than expected), when Emily's doorbell rang again.

"I'll get it!" the boderline-petite brunette announced, eagerly jumping to her feet and running to the door. Her stockinged feet padded on the wood floor; it sounded more like there was a little kid running around the apartment.

"Tim!" she squealed, jumping up and down excitedly. "Tony said you couldn't come! Oh, my gosh! Come in!" She smiled happily and stepped aside to let him in. "You missed my chili, but I can heat a little bit up for you. We have some baclava. It's a little too sweet for me." She winked, as if it was just their little secret. "But it's store bought." It was then she realized he hadn't spoken a word yet.

"I… brought you some pineapple," he stated, holding out the aforementioned fruit. He caught her confused, albeit delighted, expression. "I was on my way here and saw this guy selling pineapples and thought, 'Emily probably likes pineapples.' So I got you… a pineapple."

She resisted a smirk. "That is probably the lamest excuse anyone has ever given me." She snatched the fruit out of his hands. "But it was well thought-out. And I like pineapple anyway, so it's okay." He followed her into the kitchen and she started cutting it up. "You had this lying around your house and thought it was enough to feed five people?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "You can see right through me, can't you?"

"Well… I _am_ a profiler." She raised her dark eyebrows.

"That doesn't mean you can read people's minds," he replied flirtatiously.

"Actually… it does." The two chuckled quietly. "I understand if you were pressed for time, though." She handed him a glass of wine. "Don't worry about it." McGee followed the bowl of pineapple pieces – and Emily – into the living room.

-x-x-

McGee was the last to leave. Actually, that was a misstatement; he was still at her apartment. Somehow, they went until two o'clock, chatting and eating and drinking. Even though there were distinct differences in their personalities and interests, they still seemed to have a lot in common: they both wrote (although he'd already known that), they both had much younger siblings (her brother was eight years younger), and had both been geeks at some point in the past (though his point had been much more recently than hers, he had to admit). Eventually, though, both started to drift off and the conversation died.

"I think I should let you get a few hours of sleep in before work… this morning," he stated, rising to his feet. The brunette agreed blearily and followed him to the door.

"I'm glad you got the chance to come," she stated with a large yawn. "Your unthoughtful pineapple was good."

"Thanks." He smiled and stood in front of the door, smiling down at her.

Suddenly, his lips were on top of hers. It wasn't very sudden for McGee, since he had been thinking about it most of the night (the wine had just given him an extra burst of courage to finally do it), but Emily was thoroughly surprised. Although she wasn't exactly fighting back.

"I don't usually kiss on a first day," she stated, leaning away from him with a smile; his arm was wrapped around her waist, so she didn't go far. McGee chuckled quietly.

"Actually, we've known each other for two days," he pointed out. "It's already two in the morning."

"Touchè," the brunette replied, narrowing her eyebrows. "_Touchè_." He leaned down for another kiss, but she shyed away. He took a step back, wondering why she had been welcoming his advances one minute and was now rejecting him. "I don't think it's a very good idea, Tim."

"Why not?"

"Well, you know…" She fiddled with her sweater sleeves, as if she didn't believe what she was saying, "we're going to be working together, and as much as I enjoy mixing business with pleasure," he smiled, "I'm afraid I have to be the voice of reason and say that maybe we should wait until after the investigation."

"You… you're _afraid_ to be the voice of reason?" he asked slowly, recognizing what she said as pure logic and not a rejection. He still felt a little hurt, though.

"I don't enjoy being a rational person," she explained, laughing at her own oddity. "Anyway, I'd like to get to know you as a friend first." She seemed confused by her own statement. "Because… you seem like a guy I'd really like, and… and I'd like to get to know you more as a person, first. In the non-threatening world of _not dating_." She smiled, hoping he would believe every word she said and understand that she was really saying _I like you a lot and I just don't want to jump right into a relationship that's moving too fast_.

"I like to take things slow," Emily clarified, hoping that would help.

"Right… yeah." His smile was a relieved one. "Me too. I think you're right. And it's only one investigation, right?"

"Exactly." She flashed him a huge grin.

"So… I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Later today," the young woman corrected.

"Later today."

* * *

_Sorry I haven't updated for a bit, guys, you know how it is. I had a weird weekend, one that left me without the strength to post more. I still feel like I'm recovering from it. Anyway, I promise I'll set a more regular posting schedule someday. I mean, I have all of the chapters already written, so it's not that. Whatev. Peace out, and send some reviews my way!_


	5. Chapter Five: Real Stuff

**Chapter Five: Real Daiquiris, Real Insecurities, and Real Good Benny Goodman**

The bar McGee went to on nights when he didn't feel like writing (or when he had severe writer's block) wasn't your typical bar. Not for those in their twenties and early thirties, at least. They played jazz, there was an actual dance floor, and the bartenders made _real_ daiquiris. It was trendy but authentic; however, since it was located in the basement of it's building, and the _only_ music played was jazz, it remained largely undiscovered, which meant it was fairly quiet and empty.

He had ordered his drink, and was about to find a seat at the end of the bar, when he noticed a certain familiar brunette sitting at one of the double tables.

"I didn't know you came here," McGee stated, sitting down in the other seat and setting his drink down on the table. "Are you here with anyone?"

"I am now," she replied, smiling across the table at him. "This is my first time coming here, actually. I guess you don't really find out about these places when you work at a cesspool like the Hoover Building."

"Not everyone at NCIS has something against the FBI," McGee assured her. "Tony and Gibbs have just had very personal experiences with the agency… but not with agents like you. It was agents who were more into the bureaucracy of things than actually doing their jobs well."

"We manage to avoid the bureaucracy, thankfully," Emily stated. "I think we're given a lot more leeway than some areas, because what we do is so specific and unusual."

"I notice you didn't say because you're so smart, or something that that," he pointed out. "Any reason?"

"It's all an act, you know, Tim. I don't really think we're better than other people just because of our jobs. I might as well be a Nazi, if I'm going to go around believing stuff like that." She took a sip of her drink.

"But you… you say it all the time."

"The truth is, sometimes I feel like I fall short. In fact, that's pretty much how I feel eighty-five percent of the time. There are people out there who are infinitely better at what I do than me, and they were never even given a chance. I've always felt like I've been given other people's chances."

"You can't really think that. You have to have some faith in yourself sometimes. You're great at what you do! You think of stuff I would never even dream about…"

"But it's not really me. It's just standing on the shoulders of giants."

"And you'd rather be one of those giants."

Her smile acknowledged the truth in his statement. "People used to say I was smart. All the tests said so. I could read at college level by fourth grade, I exceeded my seventh math teacher's level-system, and I corrected my eighth grade English teacher's spelling. But I never got into those special programs. The message I got was 'you're special, but you're not worth it, because you're not smart the same way the other kids are'. Because I couldn't do long division in my head, there was something wrong with me. Because I had a horrible memory and acted like I had ADD half the time, I was just another B student. That didn't happen to you, Tim. You went to college early and got all these fancy degrees and had, like, a perfect GPA in college… you're Normal Genius."

"And what are you? Crazy Genius?"

She seemed to break out of a reverie. "I'm sorry I'm bothering you with my emotional garbage. I didn't mean to unload on you like that." She took a few more sips of fruity-girly drink.

"Everyone needs to every once in a while," he stated empathetically. A slow song started playing, _Quando, Quando, Quando_ by Michael Bublè. "Do you want to dance?"

Her smile was blissful. "I would _love_ to dance."

_Tell me when will you be mine?_

_Tell me quando, quando, quando?_

_We could share a love divine,_

_Oh, my love, please tell me when._

_Ev'ry moment's a day,_

_Ev'ry day seems a lifetime._

_Let me show you the way_

_To a joy beyond compare…_

_I can't wait a moment more,_

_Tell me quando, quando, quando?_

_Just say it's me that you adore,_

_And then, darling, tell me when._

"You're a good dancer," Emily observed, when the song was over. "Where'd you learn to dance so well?"

"My grandma taught my sister and me," he explained, leading her back to the table. "She made us dance together; it was awful." She laughed at his disgusted expression. "But I guess she thought it would be important for us to learn to dance properly."

"That's cool. I took ballroom dancing classes with my grandmother and grandfather over the summer before sixth grade." She smiled reminiscently. "What kind of drink is that? I've never seen it before."

"Are you a cocktail expert?" McGee asked jokingly, glancing down at the red beverage. "Have you even seen every cocktail ever made?"

"My parents are some of those parents who understood that there are something's you need to learn in life that no one teaches you. One of those happens to be the art of the bar. Luckily, when I turned twenty-one, my mother decided to teach me. And she knows a lot. Not that she's a drunk, or anything. She's just a good cocktail-er. Anyway," the young woman sighed, "Why does everything come back to me? I asked you a question."

"Oh, right. About my drink." She nodded eagerly. "I actually made it up myself."

"Did you name it?"

He considered it. He actually considered telling her the name of the drink. But if she had read Deep Six (which she very well might have), she would recognize it right away. And then she would either think he was lying about the drink, or put two and two together and realize that he was Thom E. Gemcity, which wouldn't help anyone in the long run. Besides, there would be plenty of times in the future to reveal those kinds of things.

"No, I didn't name it."

"Well, what's it got in it?"

"You wouldn't like it," he insisted quickly, switching gears. "So, what do you think about the case?"

"Do we have to talk work?" she groaned.

"Not work. Just tell me what you like or don't like about working with NCIS on this particular assignment. I mean, as far as you can tell, having worked on it for only three days." He grinned as she rolled her eyes.

"That sounds suspiciously like work." Emily sighed. "I like working with you guys; you don't have as many rules to follow as we do, although we tended to break the ones we didn't like, anyway. And the case… it's tough, but I think we can all solve it together." She smiled weakly as another song came on. "Ohh… Benny Goodman!" McGee found himself being grabbed by the hand and was pulled onto the dance floor once more.

* * *

_Yeah, another chapter. It's called author's guilt. Anyway (ohmigod, that just took me like five tries to spell) I really love this chapter. It's nice to write something a little more stylized, because I like that kind of artsy stuff (stylized because I tried to make it as forties-esque as possible, including the characters... I imagine Tim goes there to get inspiration for his novels and sort of morphs into this alter ego... but that's just me). Please, review, won't you? I'm sorry I rant so much and sound like a valley girl._


	6. Chapter Six: The Awkward Part of the Job

**Chapter Six: The Awkward Part of the Job**

"I hate this part," Emily stated.

"What?" Tony replied, stepping away from the door and waiting for an answer.

"Questioning the ex-wife. It's awkward."

The door opened, and a plump, unhappy-looking woman appeared at the door. She took one look at Tony and Emily and seemed to know immediately whom they were.

"Hi," began Emily, giving the woman her best smile. "Ms. Colt?"

"Yes," the woman replied wearily.

"I'm Agent Saunders with the FBI, and this is Agent DiNozzo with NCIS. I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions about your ex-husband. Are you available?"

Ms. Colt debated speaking to them. She didn't _have_ to; she could just say she was busy and hopefully they would leave. But the girl seemed polite, which was hard to say of most of the FBI agents she had met.

"I can talk for a few minutes. Come in." She opened the door and stepped aside to let them in. A minute later, they were situated in the living room. "What has he done this time?" Ms. Colt asked immediately, sighing.

"Excuse me?" Tony asked politely.

"I know you're here to question me about something he did. So just get it over with so I know what he's gotten himself into."

"Ma'am, as far as we know, your ex-husband has done nothing wrong," Tony stated conciliatorily. "However, as part of our investigation, we'd like to speak to you so that we can eliminate him from our suspect list."

"How can you say he's done nothing wrong if he's a suspect?"

"I'm a profiler," Emily explained. "In terms of career path, age, and general background, he fits the profile of who we believe our suspect to be." Ms. Colt seemed dismayed. "However, it's an extremely rough sketch, and falling into the category doesn't mean that he's even involved. That's why we're conducting these interviews."

"Oh… yes, I understand." Ms Colt nodded slowly. "Would you two like anything to drink? I feel like I should offer you something. How about some lemonade."

Tony immediately declined, but Emily considered the novelty of the situation. No one had ever offered her lemonade during a questioning before.

"I'd like some, please."

Tony threw a glance over in her direction when Ms. Colt left the room. "That's kind of unprofessional, Saunders," he observed offhandedly.

"How so, Tony?"

"Well, it just… it is. You can't take anything from these people. We're inconveniencing them enough as it is."

"That's not true. They offer because they really want to, not just because of formalities. I can just tell."

"How?"

She shrugged, furrowing her eyebrows. "I don't know. I just can. I've always been able to sort of read people's actions. That's what makes me good at my job." Ms. Colt returned with the drink, and Emily sipped it pensively.

"Now, you cited the reason for your divorce as irreconcilable differences, correct?" Tony asked.

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling us what those differences were?"

She shook her head. "He… he went on a mission one day, and he came back, and he wasn't the same. It was like…" Ms. Colt licked her lips, "like those soldiers you hear about. The ones who come back from war and are like… hollow shells. That's how he was. I couldn't handle it." She sighed wearily. "He _changed_."

Emily's eyebrows furrowed, and there was empathy, not just sympathy, but empathy, behind her eyes. "I see." She scribbled in the leather-bound notebook perched on her knee. "How often did you speak to him after he returned from that mission?"

"Not very often."

"When you did speak to him, did he seem upset about something? Possibly bitter? Did he ever make any negative comments about his job?"

"No… he wasn't angry; he was sad. He never started conversations, either. I would ask him a question, and he would give me a one-word answer." The older woman lost her concentration for a moment. "It wasn't that he was upset; he just lost his motivation."

"To do what?" Emily asked attentively.

"Anything."

-x-x-

"Now you know why _I_ hate going to talk to the ex-wives?" started Tony, as he drove the car back to NCIS. Turning to him, Emily glanced over her aviator sunglasses.

"Why?"

"Because it's a waste of time." The brunette chuckled quietly and rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the scenery passing by. Vividly aware of the silence growing between them, Tony cleared his throat awkwardly. "So… you and McGee, huh?"

"What?" she asked sharply, turning a smoldering, intense stare on him. He could feel it from behind her sunglasses.

"I mean… you two are dating, right? I could tell from the night we went to your house."

"No. We're not dating. We're-" She debated elaborating; she didn't feel like she could talk to anyone else about the situation, since those that would listen and help didn't really understand the situation, and those that would understand were the people who shouldn't know, "we're not dating."

"Yeah, you said that already. In fact, that's exactly what McGee said, too. 'We're not dating. We're not dating.' Someone would think you two were a broken record player." Emily didn't reply. "What about you and Keller?"

The brunette laughed. "That ship hath sailed." Her eyebrows furrowed. "Or… it started to sail, or I wanted it to sail, or we tried to make it sail… but it didn't work. And now…" She looked down at the intertwined fingers in her lap. "He's not the same as he used to be."

"You two seem to get along pretty well," offered Tony.

"We still do, but we don't have the same relationship. I think it's because of the age gap between us. He's just getting to an age in his life when he doesn't feel like he can connect with people in their early twenties. And… I can understand that. We're just different people."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"It does, but I can accept the fact that there's nothing I can do about it. I'm not his boss."

He turned to stare at her, and she looked right back, a small smile resting on her lips. "You're weird. How do people figure you out?"

She laughed. "They don't!"


	7. Chapter Seven: Emily Sees Change

**Chapter Seven: In Which Emily Begins to See a Change**

"Okay, let's… let's just go over this again," Emily sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily as she stood in the center of the bullpen. "We know our killer has a preoccupation with government agencies, and the actual agents, more specifically. We know that he probably _was_, or is, a member of an agency. And, if so, he probably has a reason to be upset with the agencies. All of the former agents who could have a reason to be disgruntled have alibis. Which leaves us, like, a bunch more still working within the agencies that could be suspects. We need to find a better way to narrow down the list of suspects."

"We've been at this for two weeks," groaned Matt, running his hand across his eyes from his seat behind Gibbs's desk. Gibbs and Raster were conducting some private investigations of their own and had left the five younger agents to carry on in their absence. "We're not going to figure out anything else tonight. Especially not when we're all about to collapse from sleep deprivation."

"I know, but… so far, the victims have been low-level. However, its obvious the killer is working his way up the chain of authority. The next time he strikes, it could be Alice, or someone you guys know," she turned to the NCIS agents, "and if we don't stop him in his tracks, it could be one of us. I don't want him to get one more person."

"Let's call it a night," Matt stated, rising to his feet with a vague hint of indifference in his voice. "We'll be able to think more clearly with a good night of sleep behind us. _All_ of us. Tomorrow, just… come in late if you have to. Sleep in and get a good breakfast. Things'll look different in the morning."

Tony and Ziva agreed, and Emily watched helplessly as they slowly pulled on their coats, collected their belongings, and trudged to their cars. McGee's eyes were locked on his computer, and Matt was straggling a little, hoping McGee would leave so that he could talk to his partner alone. When it became obvious this wasn't happening, he drew closer, giving her a small smile.

"I understand your dedication. Really, I do," Matt asserted. "And if I were a little younger and a little more passionate, I'd be the same way. But you can't push yourself too far, Emmy." He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I admire your zest, but you can't keep going like this and expect for your brain to function at one-hundred-percent. You need a break." He smiled. "Are you coming?"

"No, I want to stay here and work a little more."

"How will you get home?" he asked incredulously. "I drove you."

"I'll get a cab."

"Right." He nodded and caught the elevators doors just as they were about to close, going down to the parking lot with Tony and Ziva.

The brunette ran a hand through her hair, looking around the large, open room for something; something to inspire, or maybe just something to justify her actions, to add a little method to her madness. Her eyes eventually fell on McGee.

"What are you doing, Tim?" she asked languidly, rolling up a chair beside him.

"I was thinking about what you said about the suspect. How he's probably still employed by a government agencies," he began, in his tone that suggested he was about to start one of his monologues. "It's kind of a long shot, but I'm searching for males in the eighteen-to-fifty demographic with government jobs who have had some kind of disagreement with their agencies in the past. It's hard to do, since none of the agencies really keep track of it, except as small, general notes. I pretty much just have to search by keywords."

"Sounds time consuming."

"It is."

"Would it go faster with two people doing the work? I know I'm pretty much crap with computers, but I've managed to tame a few search engines in my day." Her smile, albeit tired, was jocund.

For the first time since the start of the conversation, he concentrated his full attention on Emily and turned to look at her. She really was tired, more so than anyone else on the team, and it was apparent on her face, in the way her eyes only followed him dully, and how her back sagged against her chair for support.

"We can come back to it tomorrow," McGee assured her, putting his computer into hibernate. "I'll drive you home." He helped her with her coat and pulled on his own.

"I'm really worried about Matt," Emily began, drawing her arm through his and leaning against it heavily. She rested her head on his shoulder and half-closed her eyes. "He's gotten weird since we've started this investigation, even though it's only been a couple weeks. Normally, he's as passionate about it as I am, but whenever I talk to him about it now, he just jokes and seems sort of apathetic."

"Maybe he's just done so many investigations that that's where he's at now," offered McGee, enjoying how the smell of her hair tickled his nostrils: coconut and another little tropical fruit. "Everyone has different ways of dealing with things. It could just be that, now that he's older, he just looks at them more like another job."

"But he's weird about everything. He won't do as many things with me. He never comes to lunch when we go out. His diction's changed."

"His diction?"

"He uses terms like _let's call it a night_ and _we've been at it_. He never used to say stuff like the; like we're just battering uselessly at a problem we're never going to find the solution to."

"I think you might be over thinking this," McGee informed the semi-conscious girl leaning on him.

"Maybe you're right, Tim. Maybe I'm just being insecure and paranoid. Like usual." They arrived at the parking lot.

"Are you saying I'm usually right?"

"Well…" She smiled to herself. "That's not what I meant, but I'm not arguing with you." The Porsche Boxter started with a low growl as Emily slipped into the passenger's seat.

"Why are you so concerned with Matt, anyway?"

The brunette was busy adjusting her seat so that it leaned as far back as possible. She then proceeded to curl into the fetal position on her side. "You honestly can't tell?"

"Can't tell what?"

"I have feelings for him." She laughed hollowly. "I don't even try to hide them at all; I'm surprised you haven't caught on by now."

Realization dawned on the driver. "You treat him the same way you treat me."

"Actually, I think I'm a lot nicer to you," she corrected, leaving the interpretation up to him. Though he couldn't look over, because he was driving, McGee could feel her unfocused gaze on him. "Have you been to Colonial Donuts?"

"I…" McGee briefly wondered where the question had come from. "I've never even heard of it. Where is it?"

"It's this Dunkin Donuts that used to be down the street from my apartment, but they changed the 'Dunkin' on the sign to 'Colonial', and kept the same 'Donuts' and used the same font. They have these enormous iced coffee's for, like, a third of what you get at Starbucks, and their flavored coffees are real. The grounds are flavored, they don't just use sugar syrup shots."

"Is the coffee any good?"

"It's excellent." She grinned; Emily's eyes were almost fully closed now. "Maybe I'll go there tomorrow."

"You'll have to take me there sometime."

"Maybe, if you come visit me, I will."

"Well, I'm taking you home, aren't I?"

The brunette replied jokingly, "It's not really the same, Tim. Not really the same at all." Her eyes opened a little again. "Matt told me I didn't need to drive him tomorrow." She sounded sad.

"I think you need to give him a little slack, Emily. Maybe he feels a lot more pressured than you do."

"I don't know. There's just something weird about the way he's acting. Like… like he's…" she petered off, biting her bottom lip.

"Like what, Emmy? Like what?"

"Like he's doing something he knows he's not supposed to. Or he doesn't want me to know something, and the only way he can do it is by pushing me away completely."

"I know this might not be much consolation, but… Matt's not the only person who cares about you." McGee licked his lips nervously. "I know we've only known each other for a couple weeks, but we've spent almost every day together, and for about twelve hours every day. So I just thought you should know that… that even if Matt's not there for you anymore, I'll still be here." He glanced over at the brunette, only to find her eyes completely closed and her breathing even: she had fallen asleep during his monologue. "Well, now I feel like an idiot…" he muttered, rolling his eyes.


	8. Chapter Eight: Ambiguous Donuts

**Chapter Eight: Ambiguous Donuts**

"I got you a present."

McGee glanced across his desk. A generic cardboard coffee cup sat on the edge of his desk, still steaming. He looked up, and found Emily smiling down at him, a similar cup in her own hand.

"Colonial Donuts?" The brunette's curly ponytail bounced perkily as she nodded. "Is it flavored?"

"Hazelnut, with a packet of sugar, and half a cream." She wrinkled her nose. "Your coffee is strong! Yuck. I tried a sip."

Tony sauntered over to the desk, sensing good coffee. "You didn't get anything for me?" he asked, looking hurt.

"You didn't drive me home last night, Tony," Emily retorted, turning back to McGee. "Actually, they changed the name again. Now, its just 'Donuts.' They removed the 'Colonial' from the sign. I don't know why. Maybe it has to do with the location." She furrowed her eyebrows thoughtfully. "It's sort of behind a used car dealership."

"That might explain it," McGee replied, chuckling and taking a sip of his fresh coffee. "This is amazing! Where's this place again?"

"A few blocks away from my apartment. They have a drive-through."

"And it's just… Donuts? Ambiguous Donuts?"

"Yeah," the brunette giggled. "Ambiguous Donuts." She smiled down at him fondly. "Tim McGee, you make me laugh."

"What about me?" Tony asked, sounding hurt. "Don't I make you laugh?"

"You keep me young, Tony," Emily stated, patting him on the arm comfortingly. "You keep me young." This seemed mildly ironic, since, at twenty-four, she was the youngest in the group, and it was obvious.

Raster and Gibbs marched into the bullpen shoulder to shoulder. "Where's Keller?" Raster asked, turning her cold gaze expectantly to Emily. A few locks of curly hair tumbled into her eyes as the young woman hung her head.

"He told me not to pick him up this morning," the brunette whispered. This statement hurt her. "It was my day to drive." It seemed like such an inane thing to be upset about, but Emily Saunders life he virtually been defined by the inane things in it.

"Why would he do that?" Gibbs asked sharply, recognizing the incongruity in this action, after having known the three FBI agents only a few weeks. Emily and Matt always drove together; it was never different. "Is he driving on his own?"

"I don't know! I don't know if he's sick or…" Emily shook her head and realized that everyone within the space was staring at her. "Why are we making sure a big deal out of it? It's no big deal. If Matt wants to skip out on work or whatever, that's up to him. I'm sick of caring!"

"Who said he was skipping work?" Gibbs asked, stepping closer to her. The brunette's mouth clamped shut guiltily. "That's what you think, isn't it? Tell me why you think that."

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Tim had told her not to worry, and now everyone was getting her worked up about it again. "Can we stop talking about this, please? I always get nervous when people start grilling me."

A very fortunate distraction came in the form of Gibbs' cell phone ringing. It was Abby.

"Gibbs, I found something!" she declared, and it sounded like she was running. "Don't make everyone come down, though. I'm coming to you." Three seconds later, she appeared from behind a divider. "Hi, everyone," she began nervously, holding a paper out towards Gibbs. "Um, I ran those fingerprints you found, and cross-referenced them with the database that McGee came up with…"

"Emily made it, too," McGee stated.

Abby ignored him. "… and I finally got a match. The thing is, we weren't getting a hit because the FBI was blocking us from the records." She shot a glance in Emily's direction.

"Why were they blocking us?" Tony asked.

"Because the person who's a match died a little over three weeks ago."

It was one of those shocking moments where everyone gasps or sighs heavily and looks at each other. The last victim had been killed just under three weeks ago – there was no way the man, whoever he was, could have killed the woman.

"There's no way that's possible."


	9. Chapter Nine: The Truth Sort Of

**Chapter Nine: The Truth… Sort Of**

"This is not good," Emily groaned, resting her head in her hands. Her usual cheerful spirit seemed to have been broken by this latest string of bad news and dead leads.

"We have to go to this guy's house," Raster stated, after everyone had tried to think of some way he could have killed someone the day after he died.

"McGee, take Emily," Gibbs commanded. "Make sure you do a thorough sweep. He might have an accomplice. If we can figure out how he was doing it, we can figure out how his accomplice is doing it." The two most junior agents nodded and pulled on their coats.

Emily stared out the windows bleakly most of the way there, looking all the while like she was about to cry. McGee felt like he needed to talk to her.

"What's wrong, Emmy?"

"I feel like my whole world is falling down around me. It's crumbling right before my eyes, and there's nothing I can do about it." She sniffled. "First Matt, now this case heading south… I'm so confused, and mad, and depressed right now." She glanced over at him. "Do you ever feel like, if you don't hold on to something, anything, hard enough, the entire world is going to shatter into a million pieces and just fall down around you?"

McGee couldn't think of anything but a glib reply to that, "I think you might have stress management issues." He realized a moment too late that it was the wrong thing to say, but she just laughed.

"Thank you for not taking me seriously." And she was serious. "I'm being so overly emotional right now. As usual." She sighed. "It's my fatal flaw, you know. Being over emotional. It's fatal because I also get mad and offended really easily."

"Me too." He sighed. "My psych report said that I'm a 'mildly neurotic introvert with a highly sensitive ego'." He frowned. "Nothing like a psych evaluation to bruise my ego even more."

She laughed reluctantly. "That's funny. I'll bet mine was really close… except for the introvert part. I am definitely an extrovert."

"Yeah, you are… you're a lot like Abby, actually," McGee observed. "I mean, more low-key, and you don't get worked up so easily, but you're both very genuine about the way that you treat people. And I guess, if I had to call it this, I would say you two were both pretty emotional people. Which is odd, that you're so alike, because no one would ever guess by looking at the two of you that you have such similar personalities."

"Yeah… I guess… I don't really know Abby that well, you know? I mean, you've known her for a few years now, and spent time with her outside of work. You guys even dated for a while, right?"

His back stiffened. "How did you know that?"

"Tony told me. And I could sort of tell by the way you guys acted together. Only people who have dated can have a friendship like that. It's really special, y'know?"

"Yeah, I do." They drove along in silence for a few minutes.

"I meant what I said when I thanked you, Tim," Emily began quietly. "I need someone who doesn't always take my crap. I mean, you laugh at my jokes, even when they're not funny, and I appreciate that, but I'm also glad that you're not so passive about my outbursts. Most people are. Even Matt is."

And they were back to Matt.

He was so tired of hearing about Matt. Matt was never there for her; all he did was tease her and flirt with her. McGee had never seen an instance where the two just talked. And here he was, being as close to a boyfriend as he could be without the perks (or the experience).

"You know, uh, Emily, my date offer's still up for when we, um… when we finish with this case, and everything."

"You thought I had forgotten, didn't you?" she asked, pretending to be flabbergasted. "Because, just so you know, I am definitely going to cash in on that, whenever we get done. I mean, as long as you pay for me. You will pay for me, won't you?" She turned big, innocent eyes on him. McGee smiled and rolled his eyes; she sure knew how to get at his weaknesses.

-x-x-

"It feels like he painted over the door."

"Just push on three, okay?" McGee laid his shoulder against the door. "One… two…" Emily turned the doorknob as hard as she could, "three!"

The two stumbled into the house. McGee managed to catch his footing in time, but Emily had to fall to her knees before resisting the attraction of gravity.

"Oh, God, my knees…" she gasped, before leaping to her feet. She appeared fine as she glanced around the small house. "This place is a dump!"

It wasn't that it was dirty; it was just that the house was messy. It reminded Emily vaguely (or perhaps a little more than vaguely) of her grandparents' house. The brunette brushed paint chips off her knees.

"The retard did paint over the door. Right on the crack," she muttered, examining it closely. "And it looks like he did it on purpose." She shook her head.

"Why would someone do that?"

"Well, they'd do that if they don't know how to paint a house…"

"I mean on purpose. Why would someone paint over their own door on purpose?"

"To make it harder for someone who doesn't belong to get in. Like it was for us. Also, you can tell when people have gotten in through the door, because it leaves those little paint chips." She gestured to the floor.

"I'm going to go find the computer. Will you get some samples from the house? Anything that might have DNA on it would be good. Or something that might be the murder weapon."

"Or, maybe evidence?"

"Yeah. That too." He smiled and patted her on the shoulder before searching deeper in the house. Emily had started going through the cupboards when he shouted, "I found it, but it needs a password to get in!"

"So? You're a computer geek! Can't you figure it out?" the brunette hollered back.

"I need your help! Just… come here!"

"Keep your pants on," she muttered, ducking down a hall and following the sound of McGee's voice. She found him in a small room near the back of the house. It looked as close to an "office" as the abode was ever going to get. "Why do you need me?" she asked, standing next to him and leaning down a little to look at the screen. Not realizing that she wasn't leaning down all the way, he turned, and found his gaze pointed directly at her chest.

"Um…"

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"My face is up here."

He tilted his head up to look at her head. "Sorry, I really wasn't trying to look, I just looked over and…"

"Timmy, it's okay. I understand. Besides, you're a guy; it's totally normal to look at women's bodies. I mean, it's normal for women to look at men's bodies, too. Just as long as you realize there's a brain attached to this body." She smiled, raising an eyebrow. He wondered if she knew she did it. "What's so hard that even you can't do it?"

"I need a password, and I need it now. You can't think of anything it might be, can you? I mean, you are the profiler… can't you analyze this guy and figure out what he would use for a password?"

"Um, have you thought about trying Gollum?" Emily asked.

"Why do you say it like that?" McGee asked defensively.

"Look around."

Sure enough, the walls of the office were plastered with Lord of the Rings memorabilia, and, in the corner, sat one of those life-sized cardboard cut-outs of Gollum that you can get at FYE for ten bucks.

"If he sat in here when he wrote his password, he probably looked around for inspiration, say his Gollum thing, and said to himself 'I'll make my password Gollum! No one's ever used that in the history of the world,' even though Dwight from The Office totally did."

While she rambled, McGee typed in the password. Sure enough, it worked. "Okay, I'm in. Now, what should I look for? Hidden files? Password protected?"

"No, this guy's too arrogant," Emily mused, coaxing him to get out of the computer chair and sitting down in his spot. "He's careful, but not too careful, you know? He wouldn't even think anyone could get past his first password, so I'm guessing we're probably home free. And, if not, there's always Arwen." The two chuckled quietly at this. McGee wandered around the room, examining things, for a few minutes, while she worked.

"Oh, my God…" Emily gasped, her gaze riveted to the computer screen.

"What?" McGee asked, tearing his eyes away from the bookshelf and standing next to her. The look in her eyes as she looked up at him scared him more than anything he could imagine caused that look. A shiver ran down his spine.

"I'm next. He's coming after me next, Tim." The brunette looked like she was going to cry and stood, moving as far away from the electronic as possible. "He's going to get me." She covered her mouth and started pacing.

"What? You… no!" He sat down in front of the computer and began going through the files she had found. Everything was there: pictures, her schedule, and all of her statistics. "Oh, God."

"You know what this means, don't you?" McGee turned to face her. Suddenly, her whole persona had become about turning inward, protecting herself: her arms were wrapped around her body protectively, her face was dark, troubled, and distant, and there was something about the way she stood that seemed untouchable. "I'm going to have to be the bait."

"Emily, this doesn't mean-" He reached out for her, hoping that there was some way he could comfort her.

"Don't touch me," she cautioned, not angrily but warily. "I'll be okay if you don't touch me." Taking a few deep breaths, she straightened and lifted her head. "We have to go report back."

"Yeah." He opened the door for her and she marched out, looking around as she exited the house. There was something frightening about her now; she was closed off and cold. She was still Emily, but a different kind of Emily: Survival Mode Emily. Her eyes didn't sparkle and her mouth didn't lift up at the corners in her Mona Lisa smile as she gracefully slid into the car. Her large sunglasses shielded her distant eyes as McGee drove the car back to NCIS, and he was unable to read her expression.


	10. Chapter Ten: In Which The Ingénue

**Chapter Ten: In Which The Ingénue Makes Up Her Mind Quickly**

"What are you going to tell them?"

She still hadn't taken off her sunglasses. Her arms were still wrapped around herself protectively; she stood as far away from him as possible in the elevator. "The truth."

"That's not what I mean. You already know what you're going to do. And I think I know, too, but I'm praying to God you don't. Because it's too dangerous, Emily. We still don't really know what kind of guy we're dealing with here. Please tell me you're not going to suggest it. Don't volunteer, don't offer. Don't even put the idea in someone's head."

"I have to," Emily snapped, glaring over at him from the top of her shades. "Besides, if the two of us have thought about it, don't you think everyone else will come up with the same idea? Do you know why they'll think of it? Because it'll work."

"Won't you reconsider?" The doors slid open.

"Nope." She marched right into the bullpen and up to Gibbs' desk, whipping off her sunglasses. The young woman took a deep breath. "Gibbs, I'm the next target and I think I should act as bait."

The senior agent chuckled. "Is that so, Agent Saunders?" he asked, glancing over at McGee. "Is she telling the truth?"

"About her being the next target?" he asked sorrowfully. "Yeah, she is. It looks like he's been working his way up through the agencies." Gibbs traded a glance with Raster, and the two were thinking the same thing. "But you can't let her do it, Boss! It's danger-"

"Agent McGee, I think that decision is up to Emily," Raster stated with uncharacteristic gentility. She had always had a soft spot for her youngest team member. "What do you think we should do, Saunders?"

"I think we should set a trap," the brunette answered automatically.

"There has to be another way!" McGee protested.

"Dammit, Tim, this is my decision!" she shouted, balling her fists at her sides, stomping her foot on the ground, and pouting like an angry toddler. Everyone went completely silent. "Just because I play the ingénue doesn't mean I really am! In case you haven't noticed, I've made my own choices for the past four years without much trouble. I need to do what's right!"

He sighed, staring at her. "All right… it's your decision. I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into."

"I know what I'm doing. Do you?"

"I don't want you to get hurt."

She stared at him with incredulity, resting her hands on her hips. Several times, she attempted to make a remark, but her brain was refusing to piece together coherent sentences. Finally, she threw her hands up in the air. "We don't have time for this. We need to get to work!"

-x-x-

NCIS and FBI mobilized quickly – which was shocking, since the agencies didn't work well together. Government agents were stationed down the street from Emily's apartment, on the next street over, in the restaurant directly across the street from her house, in the next apartment over (her neighbor had been polite enough to succumb to government authority without a fight), and one over-eager new agent ever volunteered to hide in her pantry, but it was a little cramped and impractical.

Now all they had to do was wait.

Emily paced around her apartment restlessly, keeping away from the windows. She tried reading, but that only help for about fifteen minutes. Watching TV helped for a little longer – she got a good twenty minutes in before the reality of her situation started to grate on her again.

Even if she hadn't been able to admit it to anyone else, she was scared. Mostly because she didn't know who was going to be coming. The fact that they were coming to kill her wasn't a problem, but not knowing whom it was, was terrifying. It's the reason people sleep with their lights on: they're more afraid of what's trying to harm them than the fact that something is trying to hurt them.

The phone rang as the sun began to set. "Hello?" Emily asked, picking it up after a few rings.

"How are you doing?" McGee asked. His voice had a strangely soothing effect. It reminded her she wasn't completely alone.

"I'm nervous," she answered honestly.

"That's expected. Just remember that there are dozens of people waiting out here to protect you. And Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva are just in the next apartment over. If anything goes wrong, they'll hear it with the bugs we put in there and they'll come to help you."

"I know." She sighed heavily.

"Listen, I really can't talk any longer. I had to bargain just to let them give me this time to call you."

"You did?" she asked, flattered. "You had to fight them over it?"

"Well, I wouldn't say fought… but it was some hard bargaining." He chuckled. "I've gotta go."

"Okay. Thanks for calling." She hung up the phone, and decided to make herself something to eat. She was never too nervous to eat. The Lean Pocket was spinning around in the buzzing microwave as Emily watched it closely. She heard movement from behind her, and she turned slowly, already knowing it was her killer.

Her breath caught in her chest. Never, in a million years, would she have expected this. Suspected – maybe. But not _expected_.

Never, in a million years, had she felt so betrayed. Betrayed by someone she loved, cared for, trusted, looked up to, treasured…

Never.

"Matt."


	11. Chapter Eleven: Gave My Love to Him

**Chapter Eleven: Gave My Love to Him Finally**

"Emmy, I know what this looks like, but… it's not personal, you know?" Matt asked breathlessly, waving his gun nonchalantly. "But you're the last. I have to prove something."

"What do you have to prove, Matt? You're not like those other guys. Nothing like that ever happened to you!"

For a moment, a crazed anger flitted across her friend's face. "Actually, that's where you're wrong. I was at the bureau before you came, remember? I was set to get a promotion. I wasn't going to be a field agent anymore; I was moving up." His grip around the gun tightened. "But then you came, and they decided I should stay on and teach you the trade. After all, you were the brilliant young face that they needed, not me. Just out of college, and you didn't need any formal profiling training. You had a gift, and they wanted it. So, really, it is kind of personal."

"I never asked for it, Mattie." Emily eyes were watering. "They just gave it to me."

"But you took it!" he shouted, raising his gun again. "They gave it to you, and you took it! I was supposed to be _mine_!" Tears formed in his eyes, too. "Don't call me Mattie."

"You don't have to do this," she stated slowly, tears running down her cheeks. "There's other ways. What good is it to just kill me in my apartment? They won't know it's you. We never figured out who did it, right?"

There was conflict behind Matt's eyes. She was starting to get through, though that didn't mean they were done. "You're right…" He lowered his gun. "So let's take this outside, shall we?" He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the apartment, holding the gun to her head. "Make a single sound," he whispered, "and you're going to get the next bullet."

It is a very alarming and disheartening to be led to your death on a busy street by a man you thought you might have, at one time, been in love with. Emily certainly wasn't handling it well.

"You know where all the NCIS agents are, don't you?" he asked, as they walked out onto the street. It was only five in the afternoon, but, with all the clouds in the sky, it was already getting dark. People walking by saw the gun, and ran away from them, screaming. "Well, don't you?!"

The brunette nodded nervously. "Some are still in my apartment."

She didn't need more of an answer, however, because at that moment cars came screaming around the corner and stopped in front of them. NCIS and FBI agents piled out of the cars, drawing firearms. Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva rushed out of the apartment complex behind them, while Raster and McGee rushed out of the van.

"Let her go, Keller!" Gibbs commanded loudly. Lighting flashed in the sky, followed by a boom of thunder only a few seconds later. The storm was almost over them. "You're not going to prove anything by killing her here!"

"That's where you're wrong, Agent Gibbs," Matt replied, turning around to face him. He still kept his arm around Emily, and the gun pointed directly at her head. "Emily was the last thing standing between me and my career. If it weren't for her, I could have my own team. I might not have split up with my wife. I could have a family right now."

"You used to be married?" Emily asked, shocked.

"Until I lost the one thing I had going for me, in her eyes," he stated bitterly.

"Do you realize what'll happen if you shoot her now?" Gibbs asked. "That jury will send you to death row in a second. You won't have anything left _anyway_. Not with this many witnesses."

"I don't care! I'm going to die, anyway!"

Another flash of lightening, and a boom of thunder right after, and it was like the sky opened up. The rain didn't start as a gentle sprinkle; it went right to pinball sized drops that felt like an egg had landed on your head. Emily felt the combination of hot and cold as her tears mingled with the rain on her face. She looked to McGee, and mouthed something that he didn't need to be a lip reader to understand: _I'm sorry_.

"I loved you, Matt," she stated, her throat beginning to close up. "I never meant to hurt you." She turned to look up at him. "Please don't kill me. I don't want to die." His face softened, and his grip on the gun relaxed and fell for just a moment.

It was long enough. As Emily watched, everything seemed to slow down and go silent as Gibbs and Tony lunged for Matt. She was knocked to the wet ground, but scrambled to her feet and out of the way as the quick tussle resolved. The NCIS agents hoisted Matt to his feet, and Tony drew out a set of handcuffs.

She felt a stinging on her hands and glanced down; her palms were bleeding.

"Emily."

"Tim!" she sobbed, throwing herself into his arms and crying into his shoulder. She balled up his jacket in her hands, as if holding on, afraid one of them was about to disappear. Her small sobs turned into heaving, hacking ones as she pulled her arms around him tighter and tighter.

"Let's get you home, okay?" he whispered, pressing his lips into her wet hair. The water had somehow unleashed a new smell from her hair: coconuts. She shook her head, sniffling, looking up into his face.

"Don't take me home, Tim."

-x-x-

He laid her down on the bed and crossed the room to rifle through his dresser for some clean, dry clothes. He found the smallest tee shirt and pajama pants he owned, and, hoping she was roughly Sara's size, a pair of panties and a bra (ever since the incident involving her ex-boyfriend, Sara had left some clothes at her brother's apartment).

"Emmy, change into this," he commanded softly, setting the clothes on the other side of the bed and closing the door to give her privacy. She hadn't stopped crying all the way back to his apartment, but the goal, at this point, was to get her as comfortable as possible. She had gone through a lot, and her wet clothes just reminded her of the events that had taken place.

"Are you done?" he asked, when it seemed like a suitable amount of time had passed by. She opened the door in the dry clothes and did nothing but stare up at him. When he tried to recall the look in her eyes later, he could only describe it as "a chilling combination of lost, scared, confused, and relieved". Maybe he was recovering from the shock as well, because it took him a moment of staring at her before he realized she was crying.

"Please stop crying," Tim pleaded, wrapping his arms around her in the biggest, most comforting hug he could. "I'm tired of you being sad. I want you to be happy again." Emily shook her head, still unable to speak. "Come on; let's lie down." He helped her back to the bed and lay down next to her. She immediately wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest, as if the only thing keeping her sane at the moment was human contact. When he turned on the TV, her tears seemed to be subsiding. "Do you want to watch something?"

The brunette just shrugged, and he knew that she didn't really care, as long as he was there with her. He found the most light-hearted, least frightening thing he had on his DVR and played as many episodes as he had. When it seemed like they had watched almost half of the full ten seasons of Three's Company, he moved on to his collection of romantic comedy DVDs that Sara had given to him as a gift, though he knew they were just for her use when she visited – and also because she didn't want her roommate stealing (or finding) them.

Anytime he got up for some reason, to get something to eat or drink, or to answer the phone, Emily had to pause whatever was on the TV and silently trail behind him, usually still holding his hand.

Eleven o'clock rolled around, and McGee started wondering whether he should take home, or let her stay the night. She must have sensed his intentions, however, because even as he was thinking, she fell asleep. He sighed and snuggled down next to her; there was no use in moving her now.


	12. Chapter Twelve: The Morning After

**Chapter Twelve: The Morning After**

It wasn't unusual for Tim to wake up a little early, but, given the events of the previous night, he was surprised to find that he did. It was seven, and the sun was just beginning to peak out from between the tall buildings. He was more surprised to find that Emily was no longer lying next to him. And then he was a little more surprised when he smelled cooking food coming from the kitchen. He got up to inspect these strange occurrences.

The kitchen was a cheerful flurry of motion, noise, and light. The blinds in every window had not only been opened, but they had been pulled up completely to let the fresh sunlight shine through. Some 80's rock song was playing on the radio, and Emily was flitting around the room, watching over several dishes cooking at once as she danced back and forth. She smiled when she saw Tim.

"I made coffee!" she sang, holding up her own mug. Well, the coffee explained the music, the dancing, and the cooking, but… nothing else.

"What are you making?" he asked, pouring himself some coffee and resting against the counter to watch her cook.

"Um… waffles, crepes, omelets, stuffed French toast, bacon, fried eggs, and sausage – the link kind and the patty kind. And biscuits."

"Did you used to work at IHOP?" he asked warily.

Emily laughed. "No. I just like cooking breakfast." She put a little of each thing on a plate and handed it to him. "I hate most breakfast food. It's so greasy, and it makes me feel gross the whole day." She made a face. He watched her carefully for a minute. "You're wondering why I'm so happy today, right? After I almost died last night." The brunette smiled and began unpeeling a banana.

"First of all, thank you for putting up with me last night," she began. "I was in so much shock that I really needed it; I don't think it would have been a good idea for me to go home. And I'm sorry I didn't say anything the whole night, but I was kind of thinking everything over." She looked down at the fruit in her hand. "I've been focusing on all the bad stuff that's happened to me lately, that I haven't been able to see the good stuff I've gotten in the meantime."

"What do you mean?" Tim asked.

"I mean, I may have lost Matt, but I've gained friends. Tony, Ziva, Gibbs, Abby…" She threw him a small smile, "you. And I also realized," she took a deep breath, "that Matt never really loved me. And I shouldn't dwell on that, because if he didn't love me, then he didn't love me. And it's a good thing, too, because he turned out to be such a creep." Emily chuckled to herself. "Um, anyway, I've just come to the conclusion that I shouldn't dwell on the bad stuff that's happened. And you bringing me home last night made me realize that… I've got a lot more going for me than I have in the past. And if I was happy then, then I should definitely be happy now." She grinned up at him. "Because I have you."

"I…" He tried to speak, but realized that her speech had made him extremely emotional and choked up. He rolled his eyes, laughing softly to himself. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

She looked relieved that her speech had been taken so well. "Not when I know I've got a sure thing," she stated, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "And this… I'm pretty sure this is a sure thing." She smiled. "There. I officially give you permission to kiss me, Mr. McGee. Are you glad I finally came out and said it?"

"Very glad," he stated, leaning down and kissing her.

"I'm going to take a vacation," she sputtered out suddenly. "I'm going to Florida for a little while. You know, to visit my parents and stuff. Maybe I'll stay on the beach." She wanted to ask him to come with her, but knew it was too soon in the relationship. "I need a break from everything."

"Everything?" he asked, relaxing his grip on her. She nodded. "How long will you be gone?" he sighed.

"Not very long. A couple of weeks?"

"I've barely known you for that long." With his breakfast still in hand, he sat down in front of his computer. Aside from his writing desk, it was really the only place to sit in the whole living room/kitchen area. Emily began to think Tim didn't spend much time at home; otherwise, he would have a more functional living space.

"I just need a break."

"I'll miss you." He pouted.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, smiling knowingly.

"What? No. Why would I be mad?" he asked, glaring at the black computer screen.

"I don't know."

"Do you think I have a reason to be mad?"

"I don't understand you, Tim! I never know what's going through your head."

"Well, I'm not mad, but… maybe a little upset. I mean, we're done with the case, and everything's going to be getting back to normal. We agreed that we'd go out on a date after the case was over. And now, we won't be able to for a few more weeks, because you're going to be in Florida!"

And people say **I'm** over emotional. "Well, I'm not leaving for a few days. How about you take me out tomorrow?"

Her eyebrow was doing that thing where it raised unconsciously again. It was a little distracting. What did he have going on tomorrow? Something… Oh, yeah. Work. "I have to work tomorrow."

"Not all day."

"Sometimes we work all day. You should know that."

"Well… I have an in with Gibbs," the brunette retorted jokingly. "So I'm going to make sure he lets you off the hook tomorrow." He laughed; she was finally reverting back to her old self. "Now, where do you expect other people to sit in your apartment?"

"Why do you need to sit?" he asked challengingly. "You have a healthy pair of legs; why don't you stand?"

Rolling her eyes, Emily grinned. "You know, I think you've been exposed to my bad attitude for too long. Well, I guess one good turn deserves another." She shrugged and sat down on his lap so forcefully that the rolling chair slipped across the wood floor. They came to a stop when the chair rolled onto carpet, and the two burst out laughing.

"Am I too heavy?"

Tim shook his head. "No."

"Good." She pulled her other leg onto his lap and draped her arms across his shoulders. "Because I'm not moving either way." She leaned in to kiss him.

"Probie, are you in there?" The door opened and Tony barged in, without knocking or waiting for a reply. "We can't find…" He saw the two kissing on the chair. "Oh, good, you found her."

Tim stood quickly. Emily, being unprepared for the action, was pushed off his lap and fell to the ground, landing on her posterior with a quiet squeak. Tim helped her to her feet, and the two stood guiltily side-by-side as Tony sized them up.

"So…" He grinned widely. "You two…? Last night?" They traded a glance and shook their heads fervently. "You didn't? Because…" He raised his eyebrows and chuckled suggestively.

"No," McGee replied, still shaking his head. "Nothing happened last night, Tony. She's wearing my clothes because hers were wet. You know, because it rained?"

Tony read the sincerity on their faces. "We've been looking for you everywhere, Emily."

"Didn't you trying calling my cell phone?" she asked incredulously.

"You left it at your apartment."

"Right. Yeah." She rolled her eyes. "Well, you found me now. What do you want?"

"You two need to come back to NCIS with me," Tony stated. From somewhere within the apartment, a short buzzer sounded off.

"Oh! That's my clothes," Emily stated, smiling happily. "I gave them a wash. I can't believe your apartment has it's own washer and dryer, Tim! How did you manage that?" She started off in the direction of the buzzer. "Oh, and I wasn't able to wash my bra, because it has to air dry, and that takes forever. Who did you get this bra from?"

"What bra?" Tim asked, alarmed.

"The one I'm wearing," she replied matter-of-factly. "It's not mine." Her smile was borderline suggestive. "If it were my bra, it would be a pushup and it wouldn't be black."

Tony cringed, but it was out of the delight of being able to picture Emily in her underwear. McGee seemed a little lost in the thought himself, even though seeing the underwear off the girl hadn't seemed very special. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was his sister's underwear.

"It's… it's Sara's," he muttered.

"I'm thinking maybe I should start wearing a size smaller, because this is only a 30C, and it's not that tight. I have been feeling like 36C was kind of big…" She disappeared into the hallway, and smiled mischievously to herself at the thought of the two men left in the kitchen.

-x-x-

As it turned out, the only things they were needed for was to fill out their respective reports – although it was quite obvious that was just an excuse. Everyone really wanted to know how Emily was doing – that was why Tony had shown up at McGee's apartment at eight in the morning and said they were looking for her.

Since she had had a personal relationship with Matt, it took Emily almost twice as long as McGee to write up her report. When she was finished, she reemerged from behind the computer, looking a little shaken but determined.

"Let's go out for an early lunch," Tim insisted, taking her hands after she handed the printed report over to Raster.

"Oh," she looked apologetic. "Sorry, Tim. I wish I could, but I have to go home and get changed, and then I have to take care of some stuff at work. I wasn't planning on eating lunch, anyway."

His eyebrows furrowed. "I thought you said you wanted to go out on a date," he stated in hushed tones.

Emily glanced over her shoulder at the other people that were close enough to hear. Gibbs, Tony, Ziva, and Raster were all pointedly ignoring their conversation. "I do. But I have things I need to do. Very important things." She smiled weakly. "You'll understand later. I still want to go out, though. How 'bout tomorrow night?"

"I don't know if Gibbs…"

"Oh, I'll take care of him." The brunette winked and turned to the older man. "Agent Gibbs?" she asked, in her most innocent voice possible. She jutted out her lower lip in a pout, turned her feet towards each other, and clasped her hands behind her back.

"Yes, Agent Saunders?" Gibbs replied, a reluctant smile crossing his face.

"I really, really, really need Mr. McGee for something important tomorrow night," she explained, cocking her head to one side. "So I was wondering if you could make sure that he's available then."

Leaning back in his chair, Gibbs exchanged an amused glance with McGee. "Is this an appointment that can be broken, McGee?"

"I'd rather it wasn't," McGee replied, trying to hold back his own smile. "I've had to push it back for a while now, and you know how these things have expiration dates…"

"I understand, McGee." Gibbs nodded seriously, turning his attention back to Emily. "It seems like everything's in order, then."

"Very nice doing business with you," Emily replied, smiling and giving her head a little tilt before marching out of the bullpen behind Raster.


	13. Epilogue: Saunders Quits and McGee Mopes

**Epilogue: Saunders Quits and McGee Mopes**

_Two weeks later…_

After Raster, Paul Andretto was Emily's supervisor. Only two days after her paid leave, the profiler found herself called into his office. She had barely slipped in and closed the door before he began questioning her.

"Saunders, what the hell is this?"

Emily squinted at the piece of paper. "It's a letter of resignation, sir."

"I understand that. I've seen resignation letters before. But why are _you_ resigning, dammit? You're one of our best profilers. I don't know if we can afford to lose you."

"Sir, as honored as I am to hear you say that, I don't think I can continue working for the bureau. I have some connections at NCIS, and I think they could really use some profilers over there…"

"NCIS?! What the hell am I, the Salvation Army? I'm not letting one of my best agents go to a shithole like that! You might as well retire now!" Seeing the undeterred look on her face, he sighed. "Your talents would be wasted over there, Emily."

"Nevertheless, sir, that's where I want to work."

He eyed her critically. "You're set for a raise in six weeks."

"It's not about the money."

"You'll be getting a pay _decrease_ working there."

"Like I said, money doesn't matter. I can live with less money – my flat's fairly inexpensive and I don't live an expensive lifestyle."

He sighed again, this time pulling his glasses off of his face. "What does NCIS have that the bureau doesn't, Saunders?" he asked, leaning forward.

"It's not just about what they have. When I look around here, I see too many good memories of a bad person. NCIS is a chance to start over." She smiled to herself. "And there's a guy over there… well, I think we might actually have a chance. I can't be sure, but he might be _the one_." It was the first time she'd ever said it out loud in her life, although she'd thought it about McGee many times in the past.

"You love him?"

The brunette laughed, her eyes veiled with thought. "I don't know. That's what I have to find out. It's too soon to tell. But I finally feel like… like I'm free. I never realized it, but Matt was holding me back. I loved a person who didn't love me back, and I can finally move on."

-x-x-

"Still bummed she hasn't called you back, Probie?"

McGee glanced over at Tony. The look on the older man's face wasn't teasing, but genuine concern. Somehow, Tony actually understood what he was going through. Emily hadn't called back for almost two weeks. He wondered if the traumatic experience she had gone through had somehow tainted their relationship, even if she hadn't acted like it in the time they had been together.

"Yeah, Tony. A little."

"I don't think it has to do with you," Tony offered, giving him friend a small smile. "Emily's gone through a lot, and she just needs time to sort things out. Didn't she say she was going to visit her parents for a while?"

"Yeah." McGee sighed. "She did. I don't even know if she's back yet." He tapped his pen on the desktop dully.

"I'm sure she'll call you when she gets the chance, Tim."

Gibbs came barreling around the corner, a characteristic coffee in hand. "We've got a call."

McGee noticed Tony and Ziva didn't spring up with their usual attitude. Since he wasn't in the best of moods himself, he slowly began taking things off his desk and placing them in his bag. As he was about to stand up, Gibbs turned to him.

"We've still got to wait for our new member, McGee," he stated, watching the elevator doors intently. "I'm sure she'll be here in a few minutes…"

"She?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

Tony grinned over at him. "Yeah… and I think you'll like her a lot."

The elevator dinged open, and McGee stretched his neck to see over the dividers. Since he wasn't high enough, and was too lazy to stand, he watched the entrance to the bullpen. A few seconds later, a brunette appeared, grinning widely.

"Hey, Timmy."

"Emily?"


	14. UPDATE!

Hey, guys

Hey, guys! Just a heads up to let you guys know that I've started a sequel to Springtime. It's called "Legally Brunette."

Enjoy!

Eileen


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